The Mad Lancers: A Powder Mage Novella by Brian McClellan

Author:Brian McClellan [McClellan, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2017-09-05T23:00:00+00:00

Styke left Landfall within the hour, stopping only to purchase a small, waterproof sea chest. He filled it with the contents of the stinking, fly-blown sack that had been tied to his saddle horn for two days. He tied up the chest and rode on, hoping to stay ahead of the news that Fernhollow—and he—had survived Prost’s assault.

The tension within Landfall extended through the remaining suburbs and into the towns along the banks of the Hadshaw as he headed upriver. It seemed that everyone he met asked for news with a guilty duck of the head, hoping to find out something valuable that might let them ride out this new revolution growing in Redstone.

Late in the evening, Styke spotted a large gathering in the center of one such small town. He paused, curious as to what could get the attention of sixty or seventy people, and cautiously directed Deshnar off the highway and toward the town center.

It didn’t take long to see what was happening. The crowd seemed subdued, watching as a handful of agitated men and women raised some kind of ruckus next to a big oak tree. A rope hung from the tree, suspending a noose around the neck of a young Palo man who stood on a crate just high enough that he wasn’t yet hanging.

Styke rode up beside a little girl who watched the proceedings from a store stoop. “What did he do?” he asked.

“Dunno,” the girl said, not taking her eyes off the scene. “Da says he didn’t do nuthin’, but the city elders claim he burnt down Fernhollow. Says he’s been actin’ all suspicious-like.”

“No one’s speaking up for him?”

“Nah. He’s just an orphan boy. Been workin’ the cotton fields for the last few years, but he likes to fight, so Da says it might be best just to let ’im hang.”

Styke felt his lip curl. Whatever was being said at the front of the crowd was finished, and a barrister kicked the crate from beneath the Palo’s feet. The Palo dropped a few inches, immediately beginning to strangle.

Styke clicked his tongue, leading Deshnar into the middle of the street before letting out a “Yah!” and digging his knees into Deshnar’s sides. The horse leapt beneath him and galloped full speed into the crowd of townsfolk. The crowd scattered before the sound of his charge. He reached the oak tree, circling it twice, driving back the few angry mob leaders before standing up in the stirrups and severing the rope with Rezi’s knife.

Styke dug his knees in again, urging Deshnar into a gallop around the oak again and again, in increasingly wide circles, nearly running down anyone who tried to approach the recovering Palo.

When the crowd finally seemed to get the message, he reined in beside the Palo and looked down. “What’s your name?”

The young man couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen—a boy, really. He was of medium height and had the kind of lean, muscular hardness brought on by a life of physical labor.

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